


All the ways we love

by Berelyn



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berelyn/pseuds/Berelyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shamelessly NSFW fic with ambitions</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the ways we love

The table is an enormous thing; carved oak and gilding and tablecloth with embroidery so fine it would have not been out of place on a queen’s dress. The food makes for an even more splendid sight, plates and plates and plates of silver filled with delicacies most of the humans of this country would have not even heard of.

They do not touch any of it.

As the first course starts, mortal king explains next part of his another complicated (some might think overly) plan. Not that Loki minds – he  _loves_ overly complicated plans; he is just still surprised by ease with which this human conjures them up.

After the last step is discussed and servants come with yet new dishes, Doom falls silent. One can see he is deeply buried in thoughts, contemplating, perhaps, another of his designs, or the visage of that man Richards bloody and broken at his hands. Loki is left with clatter of plates and occasional rustle of Doom’s velvet overcoat for company.

He knows that this is the time he must take his leave and find something else to entertain himself, because Doom can sit like that until the sun sets, and Loki didn’t come here to be overcome with boredom again. The chances of snapping the mortal out of his musings are as slim as his brother’s skull is thick.

Loki tries anyway. What is life without a challenge?

‘If I were to turn into a women now’ he asks loudly, ‘naked and beautiful, and sprawl myself at your legs, would it be enough to catch your notice?’

Very slowly Doom turns to look at him, the sound of metal grating against metal almost a thunder in the quiet of the room.

The eyes of the mortal stare at Loki through the tiny slits in armor, hard and expressionless.

‘You know that I do not care’ he says, finally.

‘You do not care whether I am naked or not?’ and this is a little offending, even;Loki is no Lorelei, who has nothing to offer the world but her beauty, but he is no Svartalf, either.

‘I do not care what body you wear, be it male or female’ Doom clarifies, and Loki suspects that much is true, but he doesn’t want to stop just now.

‘Oh? Lush curves or lean muscle – do they hold no difference for you? Do you not enjoy one more than the other?’ Loki crosses the space between them in brisk strides, leans on the table just in front of Doom, his voice becoming a whisper, a promise ‘I can be a warm, soft creature, melting into you as you take me, moaning my pleasure as your hands travel from my hips to my breasts… or I can growl and scream as you overpower me, my hands as strong as yours as we clench unto one another…’

‘You are never soft, Asgardian’ Doom interrupts. ‘I do not see the reason for you to be so surprised. You certainly didn’t come to Doom for my… beauty’.

And that is true as well, but beauty is not something you look for in your lovers when you lived to see as many ages as Loki. Beauty gets old fast, and there are other much more appealing qualities – that stay appealing, forever.

Like power. Oh, yes, power is the most delicious of them all, and Doom held power like few other mortals did.

‘I see’ he says, and Doom glances at him, barely noticeable under his mask. Barely noticeable for a mortal, rather.

‘There are certain aspects of you I enjoy…. aesthetically’ he adds.

‘And what would those be?’

‘The way you press your lips into a line when you try to hold back your moans. The way muscles at your belly tighten when you arch your back. The way you go completely still when you don’t want to press into my hand, when you want to look indifferent even as you are naked in front of me and aroused so painfully there is a whimper in your every breath’.

Loki blinks a few times and checks whether the sun is still outside. Usually, for all his genius, the mortal is way too predictable – but this one had come as surprise.

Pleasant surprise, even. Doom had reminded Loki of all those moments he was on his most low, the moments he was reduced to nothing but a flesh shell, writhing and gasping,  _wanting,_ left at the will of another. Those moments should not have been so… entertaining to recall.

‘I told you once already, Asgardian. Doom can match you, game for game’.

_Ah_. So this is how he wanted to play this. Well…

‘You are truly an unusual man, mortal king’ Loki whispers ’you have access to all the world’s luxuries – this food and wine, this castle which cost your country a decade of hunger… you are allowed to touch me, to undo me, to make me yours… but it is as if you do not appreciate it at all’.

Nothing. Not even another sidelong glance, not a long-suffering sigh, and that flicker of desire Loki noticed in Doom’s voice seemed long evaporated. Loki flinches and purses his lips in annoyance. He could continue, out of principle – not many can resist his seductions, given time – but this mortal didn’t even deserve the luck of his attentions.

He is leaving.

Loki is already at the door when Doom calls.

‘Wait’.

‘What is it, mortal king? Have you awoken from your slumber?’

And a sigh, now, clearly audible. The day was  becoming odd even by Loki’s standards.

‘Would you come back here?’

Loki debates it with himself, but it was a question, not an order, and so he thinks – why not try and see what the mortal has in mind?

‘ Remove the clothing’

'Right here?'

'Yes'

 

This is not odd or unusual. This is another Ragnarok, nothing less. Loki tries to show none of his puzzlement – he smiles seductively, shaking his hair out from his helmet, slowly removing his gauntlets, his tunic. His pants and boots take a little time, but he manages to make the most of it, writhing out of them, every move sensual. As he has only his undergarments left, Loki leans against the table again, almost sitting on it this time, and waits.

Doom comes up to him and palms his chin. Metal of his gauntlets is colder than Loki anticipated – always is.

‘I appreciate it’ he murmurs ‘I enjoy it. I enjoy the way your eyes light up when you think you are being clever. I enjoy the way you smile with mischief, wreaking havoc on painfully thought-through plans – as long as those are not  _mine_ , because then I enjoy thinking of breaking your white neck’

As Doom speaks, monotone, his eyes travel up and down Loki’s naked body; his hands slid down Loki’s cheeks, trace the skin on his throat.

‘I enjoy it when you are mine, yes – when you shiver under my hand and your skin is hot and sweaty and you inhale as your eyes dilate. That one, Asgardian, I appreciate most definitely’.

Doom’s hands are pressing against Loki’s sides now, his fingers digging into Loki’s ribs – it’s painful, but after all the torture he had been through, pain like that shouldn’t even register. And yet it mixes with lust, it makes his blood sing, it takes his breath away.

With lust, yes. Because Loki had been praised many times, over the centuries that were and centuries to come; but now, as a mad mortal king looked at him with eyes ever so slightly darkened by desire and spoke, quietly, all the compliments and threats in his ear….Loki felt himself harden, sweat beading in the corners of his eyes.

‘I want you to touch me’ he whispered before thinking, wetting his lips and rocking his hips slightly to make his offer absolutely clear.

He thought he felt fingers scraping against his bone for a second.

'Here?’ Doom says, an uninteded (it seems so, at least) echo of his earlier question ‘Isn’t my bedchamber good enough for you, Asgardian? Must you now bring it here, when the dinner isn’t even over yet?’

Loki feels anger rising in him – just anger for once, because he  _definitely_ wasn’t the one to bring bedchamber matters into a great hall – but he settles for another strategy. He will get what he wants and think on revenge later.

‘You are the king here, are you not, mortal?’ he whispers ‘Who is to decide the dinner’s over but you? Who is to take what you want but you?’

Doom chuckles, deep sound resonating of his armor in a way Loki would find rather amusing if those thrice-damned hands didn’t travel down his belly, slowly forcing his legs apart – he resists, because he knows one should not let Victor von Doom have his reward without a bit of a struggle.

‘Little snake’ Doom says, his spellwork-reinforced armor giving strength to his hands. Loki wants to answer, but then Doom drags his hand along the remnants of his clothing and palms the bulge that strains against the silk, his rough touch once again washing away the boundaries between pain and pleasure.

And then the hands are gone. Just… gone. Loki narrows his eyes.

‘Another game, mortal king? Should we play ‘till dusk and dawn? You know I have my bag of tricks’.

‘No’ Doom says, and yanks Loki off the table, turns him around and presses into his back. One of his arms encircles Loki’s waist, another travels down his chest; with any other man, pressed so close, Loki would easily be able to tell the extent of his arousal, no godly powers required. But this is Doctor Doom, and all he feels is cold metal against his heated skin. ‘No games’.

There are blunt spikes on the tuille of Doom’s armor, and one of them is exactly between Loki’s legs, teasingly almost-touching that spot behind his balls. The mortal’s hand caresses him through the cloth, again, and Loki bites his lip, steadying himself against the table.

‘Would you like me to take the gauntlet off, Asgardian?’ Doom asks, and Loki smiles.

‘Would you like me to take it off for you?’ because yes, his bag is still full, and he knows his mortal all too well. Doom takes a ragged breath, and Loki almost tears the gauntlet off.

Doom’s hand is still covered with corduroy of his glove, and it’s rough against Loki’s skin as it slides into his undergarments and seizes his cock, pumps it in several fast movements and then finds the slow, maddeningly slow rhythm.

Loki fights not to close his eyes.

With his other hand Doom pushes into Loki’s back, slowly forcing him to bow down, his legs slightly bent and spine still straight; the mortal himself bows with him, over him, just enough to keep his hand where Loki very much wishes it will stay.

He is half-lost in the pleasure, but he  _does_ notice when at some point he ends up almost completely  _under_ the table, staring on the carved faces on its single enormous leg. Doom’s hand is gone again, but when mortal presses forward, that damn spike Loki forgot about slaps against his balls, and it should be painful, not arousing, but then it withdraws and presses against  _that_ spot exactly.

Loki holds to a leg, manages to keep himself from pressing back, his lips dry and cracking as he gasps. Hands, warm and real, not hidden under layers and layers of protection this time, caress his thighs, then go further up, and at this point, Loki thinks in dark amusement, he wouldn’t mind that spike  _in_  him.

In fact as his cock twitches in his hand he is surprised at how much he would not mind it.

Doom doesn’t hold all that much with teasing this time, at least. His fingers move slowly, but surely, one, two, three… and then mortal forces himself in, one single rough motion that makes Loki cry out and bang his head against the table.

Doom continues with those quick, harsh thrusts, again and again, and Loki matches his rhythm with his own hand. The whatever part of Doom’s armor keeps scraping against his back is leaving skin raw, but Loki is almost lost in those isolated bursts of pleasure. Almost – because that irritating mortal still doesn’t push himself all the way in, doesn’t hit Loki as deep as Loki wants it, still playing, still craving submission even as he fucks a man curled under his thrice-damned table.

Loki presses his lips together, regaining control of himself, never rocking back – he can play, oh, he can play, he is patient – and even this giant table starts slowly shuddering as they move against it.

‘Try not to spill sauce on my back, will you?’ Loki calls out, almost giggling, stroking himself faster and faster, his bent legs now shaking shamelessly.

 There is a moment’s pause, and then Doom slams into him with complete abandon, and Loki screams at all of it – exhilarating pleasure and numbing pain and his voice goes raw as all of him concentrates in this single pulsing spot of heat.

And then Doom withdraws from him, leaving Loki shuddering, still hard, so close to release, every breath catching painfully in his throat – and drags him from under the table.

And if the day had been unusual before, it becomes downright impossible now as Victor von Doom throws Loki on his oh-so-precious table. Asgardian manages to control himself and doesn’t land into a pot of stew, which is in itself an accomplishment.

He brushes off broken plates, and Doom comes for him. Most of his armor is gone now, but greaves are still there and breastplate and, of course, that silly mask. Table groans under their weight as Doom looms over Loki.

‘Victor’ Loki calls, and the mortal freezes.

‘I told you that name is not to be used by you’ he growls out, and Loki laughs at that – because when had a word of a mortal stood before the will of a God?

He then raises his hands, frames  _the_  mortal’s face and whispers quietly.

‘Victor, please’.

At that, Doom shivers and throws his head back, and all of his body is stone at one moment, unyielding and harsh, and then it relaxes into his arms.

‘If you insist’ he grumbles.

Removing the mask takes time, but Loki doesn’t rush. When he takes it away, the face under it is flushed with desire – no disfigurement can hide it – and the jaw is strong and struck out, and the eyes are narrowed, barely visible.

‘Look at me’ Loki commands, and Victor does, taking Loki in – his naked body, pale skin and lean lines and legs wide-spread in open invitation and, of course, all the marks at his skin left by armor. Doom wets his lips – part of his tongue was caught in the explosion too,Loki knows, and looks molten.

This face Loki can read easily, all the power and control and hubris and greed plainly seen, but now they are playing second fiddle to Doom’s lust – lust sparked by none other than him.

Oh, Loki can look at this face for hours, but instead he draws Doom into a rare luxury - a deep, long kiss, their teeth and tongues smashing, and maybe he is the only one out of them who still had lips but damn all the worlds if Victor can’t still  _kiss_.


End file.
